


july, she will fly

by listlessness



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Found Family, Gen, Giants, Melancholy, Team TARDIS, a case of mistaken age, adventure of the week style, but in a very gen style, super soft macrophilia, very slight ageplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:13:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22692352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/listlessness/pseuds/listlessness
Summary: After visiting a bonfire she isn't meant to witness for a ceremony she has no right in taking part in, the Doctor awakens to find herself imprisoned in what has to be the most cozy prison cell.Because, after all, aren't cots just jails for infants?
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor & Original Character(s), Thirteenth Doctor & Yasmin Khan & Graham O'Brien & Ryan Sinclair
Comments: 1
Kudos: 25





	july, she will fly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheseusInTheMaze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheseusInTheMaze/gifts).



> This was written for my dear, sweetest Theseus for Valentine's Day. However, me, being me, wound up writing something less salacious and more melancholy because that is My Brand™. I do hope you enjoy, hon.
> 
> As a result, this sits somewhere between Monster-of-the-Week and Sad-Doctor-Mood-Time. This is also my first time finishing something within the Whoverse, so I hope it's not too off.

There were tales of the giants. The Doctor could barely remember a time when she hadn't known of them. They were large, towering creatures, at least six times the height of an average Time Lord, and capable of an enormous force. However, they were apparently a peaceful race, slow to anger and loathe to aggression. There were signs of them through the Keeban galaxy and a smattering of the neighbouring ones. A streak of paint along a cave wall, the relics of some ancient technology, the dismantled walls of a house. Sometimes, if the Doctor closed her eyes while she stood on a planet in the galaxies, she swore she could hear the whistling, reedy note of one of their songs. 

Above all, they loved family. The Doctor could appreciate that. She had told a certain author about them on a previous journey around the universe, and he'd gone and written a story about them. The Doctor had a signed copy of it somewhere. 

Yaz, Ryan and Graham had been disinterested about coming along on her jaunt to the local village. At the time, the Doctor had been admittedly a little annoyed by that. Sure, there was a wonderful beach on the other side of the continent, safe and separate and full of a race of beings of a similar height. But, now, as the Doctor found herself groggily waking up to that haunting tune that sounded like it was played on panpipes, she realised it was perhaps for the best. 

The birth and naming ceremonies of the giants was the stuff of legends. The Doctor had always loved birthdays. Well, she supposed she did- sometimes the exact likes and dislikes of her former selves was a bit fuzzy. But she _currently_ loved birthdays, and that was the important part. The music, the joy, the magic; everything she loved about them, the giants were meant to thrive at. The ceremony itself lasted a week, starting with the youngest babies born in the last year presented to the clan and ending with the infants being named and the toddlers adopted out. 

She remembered singing. Yes, she definitely remembered that. And... and not dancing, so much, but some kind of ceremonial movement. Ritualistic motions to thank the universe for the gift of children. And fire. It had been some kind of campfire or bonfire, situated in the centre of the village, which comprised of buildings that looked quite a bit like large stone igloos. The fire had been enormous and warm and the Doctor had been compelled by some force greater than her to go closer to it. There had been a sweet and spicy smell in the air, a mixture of floral fragrances not unlike Earth violets and something akin to cinnamon and sandalwood. 

She'd been suddenly tired. So very, very tired. It had been impossible to keep her eyes open, and the ground had been so incredibly soft, despite being covered in dew. The music, like reeds in the wind, had rung in her ear and she'd tugged at the piercing, wondering distractedly if it had caused the noise. 

The room she awoke in was warm. That struck the Doctor at first. The walls were awash in red and orange; as her vision cleared and she found herself clawing out of the hazy sleep she'd fallen into, she realised it was the glow from a distant fire, perhaps the very same she'd fallen asleep in front of. 

Lifting a hand, she rubbed her eye and pushed herself up into a seated position. She was in some kind of cell. There were tall bars all around her, and she was elevated off the ground. It was a cell with a very soft floor. And, curiously, a blanket. She had heard the giants were a peaceful and kind race, but she didn't know of many races that provided such luxury to their prisoners. 

_Was_ she a prisoner, though? The birthing and name ceremonies had been known to be a little mysterious, (and dare she say it, secretive and private), but that didn't mean they were illegal to witness. Maybe there'd been a terrible miscommunication. It was tough to consider- her head was absolutely pounding. 

Somewhere to the left of her, on the other side of the room, a door opened. The room was dim, the fire outside providing only a warm glow; the cracked door allowed some light to spill through, but that, too, was a dim yellow. The giants had access to great technology, but they seemed to prefer living close to nature. The Doctor could appreciate that, even if she enjoyed preferred technological advancements. There was a curtain above her cell and it kept billowing in with a breeze. If she jumped, she just might able to reach it. 

'Hullo,' she said as cheerily as possible as she held onto the bar and tried to stand. Someone had taken her boots. 'Am I a prisoner? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to intrude.' 

At least, that's what she _tried_ to say. Her brain was still made of mush and there was a rather insistent throb somewhere in the left quadrant. It reminded her a little of her wild school days, when she and a certain dear friend used to imbibe a few too many distilled beverages. What seemed to come out instead was a slurred sentence that her tongue couldn't quite wrap around. 

She tried again as her would-be jailer approached. 

'Hullo. Am I a- a, uh, a pris- hm. Is- is an accident. Shoot.' 

'Oh, are you awake?' 

Oh, _darn_ , did her head hurt. Resting her palm against her brow, the Doctor nodded and shut her eyes. Maybe she'd hit her head against something. Clutching the bar with her other hand, she forced herself to remain upright. 

Something grabbed her. Squawking loudly (only to cause her pounding head to throb in protest), the Doctor opened her eyes to find herself being heaved up, out of the prison cell. 

One of the giants was picking her up. Oh- oh this was either very bad or very good. Her head was suggesting the former. 

'No, no, no, you don't need to- oh, _dear_ \- ' 

She found herself lifted up to meet the gaze of the giant. Giantess? She'd never learnt what they preferred. She could appreciate that. She still found herself being more comfortable being referred to as _sir_ or _mister_ , despite her apparent appearance. 

Dark, deeply set eyes. A thick brow, with a scattering of wispy hairs in between that may have threatened to make it one that Frida Kahlo would have admired. A wide, snub nose that was littered with a variety of freckles of all sizes and shades. Her lips were soft, with a ceremonial stripe of white down the centre. This close, the Doctor could see where it had begun to flake off. 

And, most obviously, a pair of large tusks that curved over her mouth and towards her nose. The Doctor was momentarily occupied with their appearance, along with a smaller pair of fangs that jutted out a little when her jailer spoke. The Doctor swore she had to remember something about those teeth, though she couldn't quite figure out what just then. 

'Did you have a good sleep? Looks like someone kicked her socks off in her sleep. We can't let your feet getting cold.' 

Despite the peculiarity of the question, the Doctor found herself nodding. It had been such a long time since she'd had a good rest like that. If only she could now find her shoes, she'd be able to leave. 

'Where's m' TARDIS?' she asked, blearily rubbing her eyes with the back of a hand. 

'What's that, sweetie?' 

Scrunching her nose up (it seemed a little too early in their initial greeting to start calling each other _that_ ), the Doctor tried to look up at the giant. She was being pulled into a hug, and despite how soft and warm her captor was, and how utterly tempting it was to shut her eyes and fall back asleep, the Doctor needed to leave. 

'TARDIS,' the Doctor repeated. 

She was being held to the giant's breasts. As much as she felt she ought to fight and pull away, the cloying smell of cinnamon and sandalwood was wafting over her. It was comforting, in a strange way. 

'Teddy?' the giant asked. 'Here you go, sweet thing.' 

'What? No- ' 

A large, plush bear was suddenly handed to her. It was a soft blue, not unlike the colour of the sky, with a black snout and a pair of shiny, dark eyes. Holding onto it as it felt rude to drop it, the Doctor felt as though she was racing to catch up to what was happening. She was being cradled by an ancient giantess while she held onto a stuffed animal. Someone had also taken her boots, which felt incredibly rude, given the circumstances. 

'Is she awake?' 

The sound of another voice had the Doctor breaking out of her reverie. Trying to peer over the head of the bear (it was almost as big as she was), she saw another giant enter the room. She had a mess of red curls that were barely contained by a knot of twine. 

'She's been babbling,' replied the one that was holding her. 

The Doctor furrowed her brow. She wasn't _babbling_. She was... tired. She still had a headache. Maybe there was a translation problem. 

'No one's come to claim her?' 

'I don't need claiming,' the Doctor protested. 'I want my TARDIS.' 

'That's right, you've got a teddy.' 

The giant that was holding her took hold of the bear and playfully rubbed the snout against the Doctor's neck. As much as she didn't want to, the Doctor found herself laughing and trying to playfully bat it away. 

'Let's put you back to bed, little one.' 

'But m' TARDIS,' the Doctor protested weakly as she found herself being laid back down into the cell. 

No, it wasn't a cell. She realised that now as she looked up at the two women standing over her. It was a cot. The entire room seemed to be intended for infants and toddlers. 

The room itself was a creche. 

Wide-eyed, the Doctor sat up and tried to look about. The cots and bassinets that lined the room were all empty, except for stuffed animals, the occasional blanket and the odd mobile toy. 

'I think there's been a huge misunderstanding.' 

Swallowing hard, the Doctor went to look back up at the two giantesses, only to find a dummy being pressed into her mouth. There was something sweet on it and immediately a wooziness overtook her. With a deep breath, the Doctor found her head give one more warning throb as a darkness rush over her. 

* 

There was an old story that the Doctor had heard a few times about the giant's family structure. They were a strong matriarchal society, with the menfolk living far from the community for months on end. They would return only for procreation purposes before they were off again. 

The infants were raised as group within the community until they reached their toddler milestones. Then, once a year, they would be named and blessed within the faith of the giants and before being claimed, as one of the women had said, and taken to live with their newly adoptive parents. 

The toddlers, being giants, were _big_. They were proportionate to the adult giants, but they were as tall as adult humans. 

As the Doctor awoke at the start of the following day, a little groggy from being sedated the night before, she realised what had happened. The conversation began to make sense as her muddled mind began to clear and the misunderstanding hit her square on. 

'Oh, bugger.' 

* 

The giantess who seemed to have taken the caretaker role over the Doctor was named Marthalina. The Doctor liked that name. It reminded her of another Martha, and she ached deeply to see her again. Marthalina seemed to be some sort of nurse-cum-governess for the youngest of the clan before they were adopted out. 

The other giantess who had come to visit was Xylanthe (or perhaps Zylanthe, but the Doctor wasn't entirely sure on how their names were spelt). She'd yet to figure out if the two women were close friends, wives or merely colleagues, but Xylanthe didn't appear to have any child rearing experience comparable to Marthalina's level. For one, she kept trying to hand things to the Doctor and Marthalina would bat her hand away. 

'Xylanthe, you know she's too little for that!' 

'She's too little for everything! Next you'll be saying she'll pluck the eyes off of the bear and will try swallowing them.' 

'Well, now that you mention it, she _is_ quite handsy.' 

Clutching at the side of the cot, the Doctor pressed her brow against the posts. She was hungry, she was bored, and her head was pounding. She barely even responded when a spoon was presented to her with a dollop of stewed fruit upon the end. She could smell the mixture of cinnamon and sandalwood mixed in, but her stomach growled as she pathetically opened her mouth and accepted the morsel of food. She refused to be held and fed, and somehow she and Marthalina had come to an agreement that she could be spoonfed while standing. 

'I can feed myself, y'know,' she said as she flopped back down onto the bed. 

Neither of them seemed capable of understanding her. They'd catch certain sounds or phrases and misinterpret what she was saying. Given their continued belief that she was merely a strange-looking infant, the Doctor guessed all they heard was childlike babbling. It certainly didn't help that her head was continuing to pound as part of the hangover from the sedative they gave her. 

No. Not a sedative. The Doctor could half-remember a piece of trivia about the biological makeup of the giants. It was about their fangs, which pressed into their lower lip between their overgrown tusks that curled towards their cheeks as they aged. They excreted a mild venom that was frequently mixed into cocktails on some planets and used a painkiller on certain moons. It was incredibly potent for a certain sect of lifeforms, but did very little to other creatures. For the infants of this species, it was frequently used as a numbing agent to assist with teething in small quantities, while also used to soothe them to sleep. 

The venom was also one of the few things that Time Lords were horribly sensitive to. It ran through the Doctor's body like a wave of warmth, causing her eyes to grow heavy, her chin bowing to her chest, her body slumping as she was held to Marthalina's shoulder and rocked back and forth. If she fought hard enough, the Doctor thought perhaps she could be pulled out of her intoxicated state- it was just so darn _soothing_. 

Besides, she was in so deep now that to prove she wasn't a misplaced infant would be embarrassing for all parties involved. But she _did_ need to get back to her TARDIS at some point. She just had to figure out how. 

* 

The giants realised she was far more intelligent than they'd anticipated rather quickly. Marthalina called her mischievous. Twice now she'd been caught trying to slip out of the bedroom door after having loosened the latch on the cot, and four times she'd been discovered shimmying up the bars of the cot to escape. Even the blue bear had been taken away from her, due to it being used as a step. 

'You need to behave, baby,' Marthalina told her as she tried to hold a bottle of milk to the Doctor's mouth. 'Your fangs haven't even started to grow in. You're too small.' 

'I really don't want that,' the Doctor protested as she batted the teat away with her hands. She knew Marthalina couldn't understand her, but she still tried. 'Please don't make me have that. Coffee, though, do you have coffee?' 

'Maybe we ought to keep you here another year. Just until you're a little older.' 

'I'm plenty old, love. Older than you.' 

'What are we going to do with you, sweetie? You're barely eating, you're not going to the bathroom- ' 

' _Please_ don't make me do that.' 

'And you keep trying to escape. Where did you even come from? Did someone give you up?' 

'I mean, broadly speaking, over the course of a few centuries, I'm sure a few people have given up on me.' 

'Come on, baby. Let's get you washed up.' 

Somehow, bath time was far more tolerable than being forced to take a bottle. The water was always warm and with bubbles that smelled a little like lavender. The Doctor had been naked in far more humiliating circumstances, and the sponge Marthalina used was both gentle and discreet. A wet comb was run through her hair, the backs of her ears were cleaned, her fingers and tossed fussed over. Sometimes Marthalina hummed, other times she sang softly under her breath, but she always talked to the Doctor about what she was doing. As far as forced baths went, the Doctor had suffered through worse. 

It was the getting redressed that was the problem. 

All her clothes had been taken off her. She thought she had seen them being folded up while half-asleep, her shirt and culottes and coat, being set atop a dresser that was painted in bright cheery colours that suited a toddler. Her suspenders had been dangling over the shoulders of her coat. 

Now she was being stuffed into a fleece onesie. It was a soft green, almost mint, with a lemon yellow trim. The hood was pulled over her head, sending locks of blonde hair over her face that was gently tucked away behind her ears. She'd could almost remembering seeing some of the babies at the ceremony dressed in similar ones; there seemed to be some kind of age-identifying coding in the colours and style. 

'Can't forget some nice warm socks. Are your toesies cold?' 

The Doctor would have fussed if it hadn't been so damn comfortable. 

That had to have been the worst part out of everything. As much as the Doctor hated her freedom being taken from her, she had been treated as well as could be hoped. It was a gilded cage, but she'd been imprisoned in far more deplorable situations. 

Even so, a cage was a cage, and the Doctor was beginning to feel the walls of the cot closing in on her. She needed to get back home to her fam and the TARDIS. 

* 

Marthalina had stopped dosing her so regularly with venom now that she had started behaving. The Doctor had finally succumbed and had begun to let herself get picked up so she could slowly nibble at the bowls of soft, mushy food presented to her with spoons that wouldn't have been out of place in a novelty store. The Doctor longed to sink her teeth into something solid. A steak, an apple, or, most deliciously, a custard cream. 

She was permitted out of the cot for brief periods of time. Marthalina would sit her in the middle of the brightly-coloured rug that lay in the centre of the room. It had no doubt been hand weaved. Various toys were placed in front of the Doctor, all painfully juvenile. Building blocks, abacus-style instruments, stuffed animals and, sometimes, books with large print and basic words. The Doctor felt like smacking her head against their rigid covers. 

She kept trying to talk, even if none of the giants could understand her. Marthalina would babble back at her (much to the Doctor's chagrin), but there were times she was sure she was close to being understood. 

'I'm not _baby_. I'm the Doctor.' 

'Doctor?' 

'Yes! Yes! Me! That's my name!' 

Marthalina laid a hand upon the Doctor's brow and clicked her tongue. Time Lords naturally ran cool, but so did the giants; there would be no discernible difference there. 

'You're not sick.' 

'A little homesick, maybe, but Doctor is my _name_.' 

'Do you want to be a doctor when you grow up?' 

'Oh, this is giving me a right headache.' 

Every conversation would end with Marthalina cooing at her, delighted to see the would-be child trying to communicate. As endearing as it had been the first few times (the Doctor could reason out that infants should be encouraged in their babble to help develop their language skills), as a fully-fledged and incredibly ancient adult, it was becoming increasingly grating. 

It was hard to tell how much time had passed. The planet they were on had a twenty-seven hour rotation if it were one century, twenty-eight in another, and towards the end of universe it had dropped to twenty-one due to a particularly nasty comet strike. If the Doctor compared that to the companions twenty three-point-seven eight hour circadian rhythm (to average for their combined sleep/wake cycles), her own occasional nap habits and, finally, the times Marthalina put her to bed and went in to check on her, she would guess perhaps four days had passed. Maybe five. The first few hours were fuzzy. 

She had to get back to the TARDIS, though. That was the thought she kept falling back to. _TARDIS_ , _TARDIS_ , _TARDIS_. It was a rhythm in her head that lulled her to sleep with her evening meal of warmed milk that had a mildly sweet and spicy aftertaste. 

* 

She awoke at some hazy hour to the sound of music and laughter. Shadows danced across the wall where the sheer curtains billowed in with the breeze. The Doctor could smell food cooking. A barbecue. Once she was freed of this infantile prison, she was going to find the toughest, hardest food and take her time chewing it. 

Yaz. Ryan. Graham. She had to get back to them. 

A cheer rang through the air. If the Doctor was right in her estimate on how much time had passed, they would be nearing the end of the ceremony. The Doctor had been housed on her own for the entirety of her stay, but she did wonder, wistfully, hopefully, idealistically, that the other infants birthed into this tribe of giants had found loving homes. She knew in her hearts and bones that they had. 

But another idea niggled at her: this would be the perfect time to make her own escape. 

If the other infants had been presented to their newest families, that meant her own name was somewhere on the line. And, as she looked down at her newest attire (Marthalina must have changed her as she'd slept, and the Doctor quietly vowed to never, _never_ , drink anything out of a bottle again), it seemed like her time was coming up quickly. 

The onesie she wore was of the same soft fleece as before, only this one was a soft yellow. There was a print on it, not unlike ducks; the Doctor recognised the birds from one of the lakes she had walked by on her arrival on the planet. Rolling up the ankles and sleeves, she turned to face the bars of the cot. 

Right. She could do this. She'd escaped far weirder situations. Everything about this situation could be described as such: she'd _blanked_ far weirder _blanks_. 

The teddy bear she had been gifted was still in the cot. Grabbing it, she dragged it over to the edge of the cot and clambered up to balance on the head. Reaching up as high as she could, she held onto the posts. Up she went, squeeze as tightly as she could and pressing her feet against them to steady herself. Distantly, she realised she'd kicked her socks off again. Marthalina wouldn't be happy. 

She'd had enough time to realise this body was weaker than some of her other regenerations, which was quickly followed by an immediate gratefulness for its sprightliness when she inevitably slipped and fell back against the mattress. She gave it a second try, climbing back up the bear, and then a third, where she finally grappled the railing at the top of the posts and heaved herself up. 

Swinging one leg over the side of the railing, the Doctor took a breath and looked down. It was a decent drop. Certainly not the furthest she'd ever fallen, not by a long shot, but she was woozy and craving something solid to eat. 

No. She couldn't think like that. She was distracted; she needed to find her TARDIS, her sonic screwdriver, and, hopefully, her clothes. Her boots had to be somewhere. 

Holding onto the railing, the Doctor took a second breath and exhaled slowly. First thing she had to do was get down. 

Leaning to the side, she shut her eyes. Everything in her body was telling her to not do it. She had to ignore it. With a determined grunt, she teetered over and fell down. For the first time since she'd arrived, she was grateful for the padding on her backside. 

Laying on the ground, the room spinning a little on an angle, the Doctor glanced at the curtains. The music outside was still playing. Laughter and singing trickled through the open window, the glow from the fire making the curtains look ablaze. 

Boots. She needed her boots. She couldn't go traipsing around in the forest without her boots. 

Pushing onto her feet, the Doctor staggered in a small circle before heading towards a chest of drawers she had seen her clothes set upon before. The room seemed so much bigger now that she was on the ground by herself. Marthalina would pick her up and carry her about to where she needed her to go. Xylanthe had sometimes scooped her up and put her down in a playpen, before the two of them had realised the Doctor had a nasty habit of managing to jimmy the lock open. It had been simpler to do than the cot. 

Reaching the drawers, the Doctor studied the size of it. Her clothes were no longer on the top. They were likely somewhere in there. She hoped they were, at any rate. Leeds in August 1994 was a wild and lawless place, and it was unfortunately the only time she'd been able to get a large quantity of her shirt. Losing even one would be painful. 

But there, hanging high from the third drawer, was a scrap of mustard yellow. It looked like one of her suspenders. 

She couldn't jump nearly high enough to reach it. She tried twice, just to see if she could, and she'd done nothing more than work up a minor sweat due to the onesie. 

Fine. She'd just have to climb up again. She was good at climbing. Plenty of kids had told her before. 

Balancing one of her bare feet on the lowest knob, the Doctor eased herself up. Stretching as high as she could, she grabbed the knob above and began to pull herself along, climbing slowly up the piece of furniture. She didn't have much space to balance, and one foot had to rest in the crevice between the drawers as she made her way along. But after several precarious minutes, she was halfway there, dangling high above the ground. Standing on a knob, she strained up and gripped the end of the suspenders. 

She tugged cautiously. The suspenders, elasticated and buoyant, slithered out slightly but were prevented from going very far. She had to get the drawer open. 

Pressing her foot against the dresser, the Doctor strained up and wrapped her hands around the knob of the drawer her clothes seemed to be in. As she grit her teeth, she kicked against the dresser, forcing the drawer open as far as it could go. It didn't pull out very far- only a few inches at most- but it was enough. Only now, she was left dangling above the ground, her heels and toes scraping against the dresser as she dangled high above the ground. 

'Oh, blimey.' 

Her legs kicked back and forth, only to find nothing but air. Her hands were sliding down the knob of the dresser. The onesie she was wearing was hot and it had begun to cause her to sweat and swelter. If she could get a little more grip, maybe she could heave herself up, like she had with the cot. She might be able to swing her legs up and leaver herself up that way. Maybe, maybe- 

Or maybe she'd find herself falling. She was getting right sick of falling. 

With a cry, she grabbed the yellow strap of her suspenders as the ground raced up to meet her. Her hand ran down it, giving her nothing more than friction burn, until the clasp slipped right past her hand. Once again she landed flat on the ground. 

'I need to stop doing that.' 

High above her, the suspenders dangled over the edge of the drawer. Then, as a gust of wind blew in tinged with laughter and music it came twisting down, hurried by the leather button ends. It landed on the ground beside her with a soft _thunk_. Before she could so much as sit up, another piece of clothing began its descent, kicked over the edge by the suspenders. 

It was her shirt. It landed on her face, smelling of musky laundry powder. With a sigh of relief, the Doctor grabbed it and sat up, gleefully delighted. 

'Oh, you beautiful thing. You beautiful- ' 

Something heavy landed on her head and enveloped her body. Trying to muffle a squawk of indignation, she hauled it off, partly hopeful it was her coat. 

It wasn't. It was definitely _a_ coat, but it wasn't hers. It was a great big pink thing, likely intended for a giant-sized toddler on a cold day. Beside it, a pair of trousers had also fallen down. Again, they weren't hers, but she could at least get out of the clothes she'd been stuffed into. 

Still. A coat was a coat, and trousers were trousers. 

She dressed quickly, struggling with the buttons and clasp of the onesies. The trousers were far too long, and even rolling them up did little with the length, but they would suffice. She had her shirt, she had her suspenders, and she had _a_ coat, even if it wasn't _her_ coat. Thankfully those two items hadn't been limited edition, unlike her shirt. 

As she stumbled from the bedroom, it occurred to her in the residual haze of the venom-like sedation she'd been under that her sonic screwdriver could have very well been in the pockets of her coat. 

That couldn't be the case. She refused to believe it would be the case. 

* 

Someone had taken her earrings. The Doctor had only realised that when she had entered what appeared to be the washroom and had spotted a laundry basket. Tucking her hair behind her ears, it dawned on her as a delayed reaction that there wasn't anything knocking against her knuckles except for the shell of her ear. 

Well _that_ was definitely a disappointment. The Doctor had made it herself from bits of jewellery that Yaz and Ryan had given her. The chain had been sourced from one of Graham's old pocket watches from a collection he'd had as a young man. Stealing her coat and trousers were one thing, but the earring was _personal_. 

Huffing, the Doctor studied the laundry basket. It was made of wicker and she could see a mound of clothing inside. There was every chance her remaining clothes were inside. Finding her coat was less about the principle now and more about finding her sonic screwdriver. Something had pulled her towards this room, instead of the exit that would have led her away. Something was leading her here. Something... _sonic_. 

Despite being filled with clothes, the side was still flimsy. The woven rattan side bowed under her weight as she scrambled up. The cuffs of the trousers she wore kept catching on loose pieces and the coat was far heavier than she was used to. Her feet, still bare (Marthalina would be _so_ very disappointed) were getting scratched. Gripping the top, her teeth clenched tight, the Doctor heaved herself up and swung herself down towards the pile of clothes, an act that now felt familiar. 

None of the clothing was soiled, but it was all unclean. She tried to look at the good side of that. 

'C'mon, sonic,' she muttered to herself as she began to pull clothing about. 'I know you're in here somewhere.' 

She had begun to sink into the basket when the sweeping music from outside suddenly grew louder. Someone, presumably, had entered the house. 

Freezing, the Doctor peeked out over the edge of the basket. The glow from the bonfire outside had created an ethereal pattern on the stone walls from where the door had been opened. Echoes of conversation and laughter was dancing down the corridor. 

Then footsteps. 

Heavy, steady, with a rhythm that the Doctor now knew to be Xylanthe. Marthalina surely wasn't far behind. 

Quietly muttering something under her breath that would likely be translated into a particularly nasty English curse, the Doctor dove under the pile of clothes. Sweat, baby food and sour milk filled her senses, but nothing more foul. 

Instead of passing by the washroom as the Doctor had hoped, though, Xylanthe came in. Burrowing in deeper, the Doctor pressed her hands against the side of the basket and peered through a crack. Xylanthe was looking over the other laundry baskets that the Doctor had instinctively ignored and humming to herself. 

When she didn't immediately find whatever she was looking for, Xylanthe turned to the basket the Doctor was hiding in. The back of the Doctor's neck bristled when she realised how close she was to not only getting caught but being sent back to her prison-like cot. She didn't know how the giants punished unruly and disobedient children and infants, but she wasn't keen to find out. 

Instead of immediately pawing through the clothes, though, Xylanthe picked the entire basket up. The shift in gravity had the Doctor falling backwards. Not wanting it to be immediately obvious there was a runaway Time Lord in a pile of laundry, she braced herself between the wall of the basket and what seemed to be one of Marthalina's tunics and tried to hold on. 

'This is the last basket,' Xylanthe called when they were halfway down the corridor. 

The Doctor couldn't see what was happening. With each step, she was sinking deeper into the basket, the clothing piling high on top of her until she was on the bottom of the basket. Flattening herself out, trying to spread her weight evenly, she shut her eyes and held her breath. At some point the basket would be set down and then... and then what? She'd have to make her escape. Maybe she could pick a hole through the side of the basket. 

'I'm telling you, there's only toddlers here, love. All the infants have been adopted out and the older children are with their families at home.' 

Marthalina. Maybe the Doctor could escape Xylanthe, but Marthalina seemed to have a nose for her. The Doctor had begun to suspect the only reason she hadn't yet taken part in the wider meet-and-greet parties was because Marthalina had already decided to adopt her. 

The idea of that did create a small twinge in her hearts. There were so many orphans on so many planets, and the Doctor did believe Marthalina would make a great mother to all of them. The Doctor loved families, the concept of families, the idea of having a family, and it all filled her with a gorgeous warmth. 

Unfortunately, the Doctor had little need for a mother. Her travels didn't give her much space for one. 

The basket was set down on a flat surface. It didn't seem to be low enough to be the floor. A table, perhaps. 

There was something sharp in the stuffy air of the basket. It wasn't the peculiarly childlike smell of the clothing she was stuck under, but something metallic. She could almost taste it. It was the smell of memories. Of discovery. Of the future. 

Pushing herself up, the Doctor began to paw around the clothing. A shirt sleeve, the cuff of a pair of shorts, the hem of a dress. Then- 

_There_. 

Her hand curled around her sonic screwdriver. The familiar kiss of metal made of old spoons. A scrape down one side from when Ryan had fallen on unsteady ground and she'd toppled over in an effort to catch him. A bump from when Yaz had tossed it by accident in an attempt to distract some six-legged bovines. A graze from when Graham had used it to scratch away a lottery ticket. 

'Got you, you beautiful thing,' the Doctor whispered to herself, kissing the side of it. 

Her coat had to be somewhere in here. Maybe, hopefully, her trousers, too. 

'If you were interested in adopting a child, some of the other clans may have children. The clans to the north do their adoption in late summer.' 

'We're not adopting.' 

The Doctor stopped, her head perking up. She knew that voice. 

'I'm a bit too old to raise a child.' 

And that voice. 

'My dad doesn't even think I could train a dog on my own.' 

And she definitely knew that voice. 

Ryan. Graham. Yaz. 

Scrambling up, the Doctor pawed her way up the mountain of clothes, forgetting her coat and trousers for now. The sonic screwdriver remained clutched in her hand, tingling against her palm as her excitement (and mild relief) of being found rolled through her. A wave of childlike glee swept over her as a sliver of warm light became visible through the uppermost layer of clothes, her hearts swelling with delight as the realisation that her TARDIS also had to be nearby. 

She sprang up from the middle of the basket, a wide grin on her face as she thrust her arms in the air. 

'It's my fam!' 

As five pairs of eyes turned around to stare at her, the basket began to wobble. The Doctor, too joyous to realise or care, remained in position as the basket teetered over and fell over the table. In what seemed to be a recurring theme for that evening, she fell towards the ground, this time cushioned by a mound of dirty laundry. 

Immediately sitting upright, the Doctor continued to grin as she managed to get a good look of where she was. It seemed to be a lounge or den of some kind. Ryan, Graham and Yaz were sitting side-by-side on a woven chair to her left, on the other side of the table, opposite Marthalina who was closest to her at her right. Xylanthe was standing off to the side, a foot away from Marthalina. 

Shaking her head, a sleeve falling off her head and onto the pile of clothes surrounding her, the Doctor began to climb out of the mound and shuffle towards her awaiting companions. 

'This is your child?' Marthalina asked, quietly stunned. 

Looking over her shoulder, the Doctor began to scoff. 

'I keep telling you, I'm _not_ a child.' 

'Doctor, wait,' Yaz said, holding up her hand. It was only now that the Doctor realised she clutched a handheld translator, not unlike what the Judoon used. 'They can't understand you.' 

'What?' 

'It's just babble to 'em,' Ryan continued. 

The Doctor stopped and stared at them. She looked over her shoulder at Marthalina and Xylanthe, then back at her three friends. 

'What?' she repeated, her brow deeply furrowed and nose screwed up. 'What are you lot on about?' 

'She's an infant,' Xylanthe said, interrupting the moment. 'Listen to her.' 

'No, she's not,' Yaz said through the translator. 'You just can't understand her. Listen.' 

She tossed the translator to the Doctor, who caught it effortlessly. As suspected, it was an old Judoon device. The Doctor couldn't remember where she'd got it from. It had probably been slipped into a pocket at some point and forgotten about, like that one time with Valencia oranges. That had been a messy experience, but Fleming had been delighted in it, the silly old chap. 

Marthalina and Xylanthe turned to look at the Doctor as she raised the translator to her mouth. She paused for a moment, wondering what to say. 

'Hullo. I'm the Doctor,' she finally settled for. 'I've rather enjoyed your hospitality, but I would like to go with my friends now.' 

While Xylanthe looked like she was about to topple right on over, Marthalina's face completely fell. The Doctor felt a wrench deep in her chest, the same awful feeling that swept over her when she had to deliver terrible news. 

The giants were a peaceful people. Their familial ties were well known, even if they were private and secretive. The Doctor understood their attachments and bonds were of paramount importance. 

'But... you're my- _a_ baby,' Marthalina finally said softly. 

The Doctor caught her slip up, even if she had tried to hide it. She shook her head, a sad albeit wistful smile on her face. 

'No, I'm afraid not. I haven't been a baby for a very, very long time.' 

Beside her, Xylanthe huffed and stood up, excusing herself by saying she needed to check on the festivities. The Doctor could hear her large fangs gnashing together in annoyance at this unforeseeable disruption. She doubted this happened often, if at all. 

Marthalina, quiet and withdrawn, leant over and began to pick through the laundry. Between her thick, wide fingers, she pulled out the Doctor's coat and trousers. She began to fold them on her lap, taking her time as she did so. 

'We only managed to wash your shirt. There's always so much laundry this time of year.' She paused, growing still, and then darted her eyes up to the Doctor. 'I hope you weren't too... uncomfortable.' 

'Not at all. Best misunderstanding I've had in a while, really.' 

As though it were a nervous tic, Marthalina ran her fingers over one of her long tusks that protruded over her lip and up towards her cheeks. Her finger drifted down pressed against the tip of a fang, coaxing a tiny drop of the dark venom that had caused the Doctor to be so woozy over the past few days. Audibly clearing her throat, Marthalina shook her head, hurriedly wiped her finger on her knee, and turned back to Ryan, Graham, and finally Yaz who was playing the part of spokesperson for the group. 

'You... you will take care of her?' she asked. 

The Doctor could hear an uncertain, almost hopeful, desperation in her voice. She knew that feeling well: maybe, just maybe, she could stay. 

'Would you like to walk us back?' the Doctor offered. 'Back to my TARDIS? That's my ship. The TARDIS.' 

'TARDIS,' Marthalina murmured, trying the word on for size. Then, as it dawned on her, 'I thought you were saying teddy.' 

The TARDIS, Yaz told her as they left Marthalina's house, was parked on the edge of the forest. They all hoped the Doctor wasn't too upset by the slight damage on the corners, but they didn't know how to land it. The Doctor didn't mind at all; she was simply grateful they had somehow found her. 

She lingered at the back, taking up Graham's usual spot, to stretch out her last few minutes on this world talking with Marthalina. The giant carried her clothing (her boots sitting atop her coat) and walked with her head down, the corners of her mouth pinched. They were only a few minutes into the walk when the Doctor tugged on Marthalina's trouser leg, lifted up her arms and wiggled her fingers for her to pick her up. Sure, she could very well walk the distance herself, but she would grant Marthalina this last opportunity to coddler her. 

'How old are you really, little one?' Marthalina asked once the Doctor was seated atop her clothes and pressed safely against her chest. 

'Old. Very old. Probably older than you.' 

The corners of Marthalina's eyes crinkled affectionately. 'I doubt that.' 

The Doctor had heard that before, many times over. Often she would merely smile and allow that person to believe what they chose to believe. 

The Judoon translator she held understood languages far older than the TARDIS had ever learnt. It appeared to be close enough to Old High Gallifreyan for them to understand some shared concepts, but to Marthalina it had been closer to gibberish. 

Maybe it was the trill of reeds, far off in the distance. Maybe it was the glow of the bonfire from the centre of the village they walked away from. Perhaps it was the faint trickle of venom, slowly leaving the Doctor's body, the cool night air prickling the sweat that beaded on her skin as the residual clamminess from her mild hangover disappeared. Or maybe it was even the stars above, clusters of old stars and dust from the galaxy they were in that washed over the sky like a watercolour painting. Marthalina's eyes were cast up above as she cupped the back of the Doctor's head as though she really were an infant. The stars danced in her large, dark eyes, the grooves in her face appearing deeper than they had in the dim light of her home. 

It was one of the rare times that the Doctor actually began to believe that perhaps she was far younger than she previously thought. 

'I heard stories that your kind were some of the oldest in the universe.' 

'We used to travel,' Marthalina said quietly. 'When I was a girl. Xylanthe and I, we saw so many wonderful places. We met so many wonderful people. Helped as many as we could. But the bones grow weary and everyone wants to come home to their family eventually.' 

The haunting trill of the reeds had begun to pick up an electrical tingle. Turning, the Doctor saw the familiar shape of her TARDIS near the edge of the trees. Her hearts sung and she took a deep breath of relief. The front door opened of its own accord, recognising its oldest and best friend. 

'Who are you, Doctor?' Marthalina asked. 

'I'm just me. The Doctor.' 

'But who are you?' 

The Doctor looked back up. Marthalina had stopped walking. Up ahead, the Doctor could sense her companions looking back and waiting. 

'I'm a Time Lord. One of the last.' 

Marthalina nodded, just once. Slowly, thoughtfully. Then, 'there are a great many giants. Many families. You must get lonely.' 

'I have my fam.' 

'It must still get lonely.' Marthalina paused, her fingers tapping along the Doctor's back as though she were about to burp her. 

'Sometimes.' 

'If you ever change your mind, you'll have a family here, little one.' 

Marthalina bent to let the Doctor back down on the ground. It was a slightly dizzying feeling, descending thirty-something feet to the ground below. She jumped out of Marthalina's hands and turned to face her. The giant had crouched down, her kind eyes downturned. Rocking onto her tiptoes, the Doctor reached up and let her hand rest upon Marthalina's cheek. Her thumb swiped over the curved fang and let her brow rest upon Marthalina's lips. A warm kiss was placed there. 

'Is Xylanthe...' the Doctor started, then stopped. Then, abruptly, 'do you miss travelling? Do you have any children? What do you... why did you...' 

Marthalina waited, patient as ever, as the Doctor tried to figure out what she was actually asking. 

Then, finally, the Doctor asked, 'are you happy?' 

There was a pause. Marthalina tucked the Doctor's hair behind her ear, her thick fingers somehow both cool and warm on her skin. She straightened out her shirt, untwisted one of the suspenders, and wiped her thumb over the Doctor's cheek as though to clean up some dirt. 

'Is anyone close to our age ever truly happy?' she asked gently. 'Safe travels, little one. Make sure to keep your feet warm.' 

Her feet were still bare. 

The Doctor smiled. Her eyes weren't stinging from tears. That's what she told herself, at any rate. 

Her clothes were handed over. Marthalina reached into one of her tunic's deep pockets and pulled out the blue teddy bear. She set it between the Doctor's boots, her hand lingering for a breath before she stood. 

Turning, the Doctor walked to the TARDIS, her clothes and boots clutched to her chest. There was a gust of wind that nudged her forward, back towards her home and her travels. It felt like a kiss goodbye and smelt of cinnamon and sandalwood. 

* 

They weren't in a hurry to get anywhere, which meant they could take their time. The Doctor set the TARDIS into a steady holding pattern, several thousand miles away from the planet. If she opened the door she'd be able to see it, rising at daybreak. 

'How did you find me?' she finally asked, her eyes on the dazzling lights in front of her. 

Her hands danced over the various buttons and levers at the console. It was a nervous habit. Some of the buttons didn't even really do much, beyond turning on lights in some of the rooms. One button even shot out a banner from the roof of the TARDIS that read MERRY CHRISTMAS 1968. Her fam didn't need to know that, though. 

'The TARDIS turned up without you,' Yaz replied. 

The Doctor ran her hand along the side of the console. Of course she had. 

'But how did you _find_ me? You didn't look into the Time Vortex, did you? Very bad if you did.' 

'We started walking through the forest towards the village, when Ryan found your earring... cuff... _thing_ ,' Graham continued. 

As Graham spoke, Ryan dug into his pocket and pulled it out. A clod of dirt was still attached to the stud and chain, but it was safe and in one piece. The Doctor couldn't even remember it falling off, though now she half-recalled tugging at her ear. With a thankful smile, she picked it out of Ryan's hand and cleaned the dirt off it. 

'Sometimes tripping over my own feet is a good thing,' Ryan said with a casual shrug. He did look pleased with himself, though. 

'When we got close to the village, some of the giants tried chasing us back here. I guess they thought we'd escaped from the nursery,' Graham went on. 'And that's when we found the translator. It was like it had just appeared.' 

The translator lay atop the console. The Doctor still couldn't quite remember when she had acquired a Judoon translator- or if she had been the one to acquire it at all. Maybe it happened in the future. Someone's future. 

'Thank you,' she said quietly after a beat when she failed to find anything else suitable to say. 

Another lever was pulled. Another dial twirled. 

Graham left to finish up a book he'd found in one of the libraries; the Doctor thought it was some Kybonian spy thriller. Ryan went to play a video game with some lads over in Sector 9. 

Yaz lingered behind. 

'You alright?' she asked. 

The Doctor picked up the translator again. Turning it over, she thumbed at the panel at the back. It had been so long since she'd met anyone of a comparable age to herself. 

How far had Marthalina travelled? Who did she meet? Where did she go, what did she do, who did she and Xylanthe help? How long would it take for them to share their stories and learn each others languages? 

A panel at the back of the translator slid down. The Judoon, if they picked up the transmitter of the translator, would tear down upon them with a brutal force. Wedging her thumb inside, the Doctor plucked out the crystal that powered the device and slipped it into her pocket. The device gave a small whine and powered down. 

'I'm alright,' she replied, with as much cheeriness as she could muster. 'D'you reckon your dad's up for making some of his pakora tonight?' 

She didn't wait for Yaz's response. Setting the translator down on the console, the Doctor began to dial in the coordinates for Sheffield, South Yorkshire, Earth. 

The TARDIS began to hum as it set off. If the Doctor closed her eyes and turned her head a little to the left, it almost sounded like reeds. 


End file.
